unhappy hour

The bar was almost empty. It was early still and there was hardly anyone in the hall. The bar-tender prepared his cocktails, wiped off the last traces of dust, and chatted with the waitress. Another waitress lifted chairs off the wooden tables.

Only a few lights were on, the red spots creating a warm atmosphere. No band was due to perform that evening yet there was a certain tension in the air, a sort of cool apprehension of chaos. At least, that was how it felt to the guy sitting there in the dark corner, behind the table, his hands resting beside a full pint glass of Guinness. 

Although in his forties, his face looked much older. His eyes seemed to be set on something very far away – a look that seemed to acknowledge so many things, so much experience of life. He sat there on his own, in a bar that had not yet come to life. Maybe he was one of those nowhere-men, the ones you see everyday in the subway, like the beggars that constantly hung around the same corner. Or perhaps this man’s living-space might just be an Irish pub – sitting alone, a glass of beer on the table and a smile on his face. 

But no, he’s no beggar, no crook or whatever; he’s a depressed businessman. Quite a contrast to the young good-looking guys who seduced the prettiest girls when happy hour came around. But he wasn’t the kind to think that the contrast was just a matter of experience – he was no hypocrite – and yet the difference was a matter of experience. 

Is that real happiness I see in their faces, he wondered. They’ve got jobs – that’s fine, but how long will it last? All they do is postpone the problem. And yet us ordinary people can do nothing to change the system. ‘Supposed happiness’ I’d call their smiles, their jests. They’re just trying to escape the system by creating virtual happiness. 

A fifty-year-old workmate had let slip something that afternoon. “Man, I’m sorry but our profits are even lower this month. I believe they are even lower in your department.” It had been enough for him to understand that he would lose his job. And now, when he opened the newspaper, there were nothing but articles lauding the country’s development. A glance at the share index confirmed the obvious satisfaction of the shareholders, their belief in the health of the market. And yet he knew employers were only looking for the most qualified, those with the most experience in any field. What could older folks like him do? No answer came to mind, but the answer... That seemed to be political. 

© 2017 Matt Oehler